


High God of the Hangmen

by Centemare



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: Attack, Czech Resistance, Nazis, Resistance, World War Two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-11
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-08-14 08:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8005654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Centemare/pseuds/Centemare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One.</p><p>A city : Prague. A date : 27th May, 1942. Ten seconds, a car, four men, a monster, a gun.</p><p>They tell the story like this ; like a Western showdown, full of dramatic effects ; how the Beast was put to death, how Reinhard Heydrich was killed, by crazy brave men. Ten seconds in which time freezes. And in which no one really every do what they're supposed to.</p><p>Ten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	High God of the Hangmen

_One._

     A man's crossing the road in front of you, his pace is slow, but not peaceful, he's waiting for something or someone, or he's not, you can't quite manage to see his eyes ; all you know is that it's not normal for one of those Czechs to walk that slow when they're crossing the path of the black Mercedes they always see in their streets, and the blond man they always see in their nightmares – it's not normal at all, and you suddenly want really hard to tell your driver to run over this man right now ; what is he doing, this guy, he's holding a heavy overcoat on his arm on such a warm spring day, and walking so slowly, what the hell, he's going even slower than before, and he's almost stopped, one step, one last step, and he's stopped.

 

 

_Two._

     There's something hollow in the way he finally turns his head towards you, in the way he shifts to another man, something else, he's not walking anymore and he damn _stands_ in front of the black Mercedes – what is wrong with him – and a white shiver runs through your spine and you'd run if there was anywhere to go to.

     The man's huge, but 5-feet-7-huge, so un-Aryan you laugh and so deadly the laugh drowns in your throat – Goebbels has warned you it would happen hasn't he – and next millisecond the coat falls to the ground, the curtain's drawn, that's it, but where is the applause – and the only actor on stage is an English Sten machine gun.

 

 

_Three._

     There it is, there they are, those eyes, you've been playing with them for three seconds now and you didn't even know what they looked like, they are black, pitch-black, and you'd be damned if there's ever been craziest eyes in History, because everything is in those eyes, death, hope, pain, life, you, him, and the Sten he's been aiming at you since last second

     The world's shriveled down to this and its reflection in your blue eyes as mirrors that reproduce themselves infinitely.

     When will he shot, today, tomorrow, yesterday, will He shot or will someone else do it, the Czechs, all of them, with their finger on the trigger, doing the exact same gesture that the man's doing right now ?

 

 

_Four._

     He'll shot, oh High God of the Hangmen, he's going to shot, oh Heavens of All Hells, Demons of the Universe, oh Lord, he's going to shot in a split second, you know it, his finger is pulling the trigger as we think, dear spectators, he's fucking going to shot.

     The air's already running out of your lungs – _we will not die with you –_ and your heart beats in, beats through your chest.

     Help me, Body, stand and run, please, the world is ending, it's Hell, this is Hell, oh my Führer, he's going to _shot_ not once not twice but a million times, there's not a chance in a billion that we get out of this.

     I don't want to leave please no leave run go leave now RUN- he's shooting.

 

 

_Five._

     It's already inside, the poison or the bullet or whatever it is, and it's so _painful_ and _horrible_ and it was so much better to be the other one this is not fun not at all _why did no one tell me this._

     The pain is everywhere and it's _white_ , glowing white, and the noise and the earthquake, _it tears me apart_ oh Hell.

_It's everywhere but in my heart, everywhere but in my heart and lungs, but in my heart and lungs and ears, and could it be – it's silent._

_There's no sound, no whisper, no fear, no pain, the man's mute, the driver's mute, I'm mute, the Sten is mute, we're all dead except us._

_The air's still there, and so is the world, and him, and me, us, there's no bullet, no pain, and he shots and the Sten simply doesn't work._

 

 

_Six._

_So I'm alive, or almost, which is the same, and he's dead, inside, which is the same._

_His eyes, my eyes, he's black and I'm blue, he's the dark rocks of the seashore cliffs and I'm the sea running at him._

_Nobody talks, nobody even breathe, it'd be damn discourteous, we're fighting for the fate of the world, for God's sake, or at least we think we are._

_I'm suddenly alive and jerked awake ; I stand on my seat and aim my gun at him, the man, the little giant, staring at me like I'm God and this is Judgment Day._

_I'm alive and well, son of a bitch, I'm immortal, unhurtable, this is the end, how good it feels to be on the right side of the trigger again._

_We're through and you're gone, we're through and I win._

 

 

_Seven._

     When you press the trigger you see him just as he saw you three seconds ago, more alive than he has ever been.

     Adrenaline flow pure in your veins, you already see the great story it will become when it's all over.

     He doesn't move and neither do you, there's no need for that.

     It's barely a shiver in your index that pulls this little iron thing of a trigger, as you've done million of times before.

     When the detonation screams it will all be done with and they will call you a hero because you are.

     But it doesn't.

     There's no scream, no voice, no whisper at all because the gun hasn't fired, and once again he looks at you just like you looked at him two seconds ago ; he's alive ; the gun doesn't work.

 

 

_Eight._

     Now that's what we call fate, or karma, or the stupidest sense of humor you've ever seen in thirty-eight fucking years.

_It's a tie, we're back to this, both alive so both dead._

_What is this driver thinking, go, damn go, the Mercedes will hit this Schweinenhund in this small weak body of his._

_What are you waiting for, drive, can't you read my thoughts, you useless scum, drive._

_The first one to have time back to normal will win and what if it's not me ?_

_There's no us anymore, we're all individual pawns running amok, this is ridiculous._

_There's no Obergruppenführer anymore, no Germans, only me, him and him, playing Russian roulette with space and time._

_So why did I work this hard if I'm still not immortal yet ?_

 

 

_Nine._

     Slowly, in the way the man walked towards you before stopping a good eight seconds ago, you see something cross the air.

     It's coming from a little pit that follows the street in parallel, maybe to prevent cars from leaving the road.

     It's small, light, the trajectory it's making towards you is almost beautiful.

     It's small, green, the size of a fist and made of iron as well.

     You've seen little stuff like this before, but never making its way towards your car.

     Once again, air runs away from your lungs in an instant.

     There isn't any oxygen left.

     Not even a little to shout “DRIVE NOW FUCKING GO OR WE'RE GONERS” to your driver.

     The little object hits your car on the left wing and it almost instantly does what it's meant to do.

 

 

_Ten._

     At the very instant the hand grenade explodes, time goes back to normal.

     The dimension you all were living in goes off like a soap bubble.

     It's all too _normal_ and _predictable_ : grenades blow off cars, explosions break things, pieces hit people, shocks hurt nerves and pain is _white._

     There it is, the real pain, there it is, the real fear.

     Where was all this raw sheer violence when it wasn't in you ?

     Oh God, it really isn't fun _at all._

     Blood is ugly on your hands but uglier on your chest, you think.

_Am I going to die ?_

_Where are the_ _honors_ _, the men, the tears, the beautiful speeches, the medals ?_

_And where am I, in all this hate, in all this pain, and why are they all still there when I'm leaving ?_


End file.
